nocturne a quiet, lyrical piece often with pensive, dreamy mood
Light dreams.
He is in a museum whose layout echoes that of his school, but vaster, the rooms larger, the hallways wider. The architecture is white and minimalistic. Though he can see perfectly well, there are no sources of light: no windows, no lamps, none of the flickering fluorescent bulbs of his real school.
There is no one else in the building. The classroom-galleries are empty. The only incidences of color are Light himself and the occasional glass vase in the halls. They sit on white plinths, calm and vivid, with no plaques nearby to describe them or even give the artist's name. This is a strange museum, Light thinks. He wonders if he is supposed to be here.
If he's not, there's nothing he can do about it. He's been wandering for hours and hasn't found an exit. The vases, once welcome breaks in the endless white, now infuriate him for no reason he can pinpoint. He decides to break the next one he sees, but when he sees it, he walks past it instead. And keeps walking.
Rage claws at his mind as he walks, and walks, a prisoner in his body, never stopping, passing the same vases over and over. Rage, and boredom so powerful and malignant it feels like despair. He's going to be trapped here forever, he knows, with the vases and the flat white light.
Forever.
And then he wakes, shivering, to find that it's morning and his mother is standing in the doorway to his bedroom. "Are you okay, Light?" she asks, looking at him with worry.
"I'm fine," he manages, gathering the scattered pieces of his composure, still half-trapped in the horror of the nightmare. "Just a bad dream," he adds, when she doesn't seem convinced.
"If you say so," she says, looking only somewhat less concerned. "Anyway, it's time to get up."